


(I know it's) a long road back

by sebviathan



Category: Psych
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas fic, Dialogue Heavy, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, M/M, and humor, and weird sad angst, psych secret santa, sort of, this is hopefully gonna put you through all the emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5538308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn and Lassiter spend Christmas on a roadtrip to catch a fugitive. A lot of things go wrong,  but arguably some far more important things go right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I know it's) a long road back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grigiocuore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/gifts).



> Written as my (somewhat late) Psych Secret Santa present for Grigiocuore. 
> 
> Set in between Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark and You Can't Handle This Episode (which were separated by a 4-month hiatus, btw). But of course, everything after the events of this fic would be divergent.
> 
> And the title is a lyric from _I'll Be Home For Christmas_.

**8:02 AM**

Woken up by the chorus of _Stacey's Mom_ , Shawn doesn't waste any time fumbling and instead sits up immediately to grab his phone—since he knows who it is without looking.

"Chief Vick?"

"I know it's Christmas, but I have a case, and—well, not exactly a case, but—"

"But I'll get paid?" he interrupts, sounding extremely hopeful. The SBPD hasn't given him any work since he got shot.

"Yes, if—"

"I'm on my way."

 

**8:31 AM**

"As I already told Lassiter, a prime suspect in a recent murder case—which he can catch you up on—has apparently fled the city. We have reason to believe he's currently in Fresno, and I _have_ alerted the police there, but I'd like someone on my force to try and find him as well. Which is where you two come in, seeing as O'Hara and, as it seems, Guster, are both busy for the holidays."

"You know, I _could_ do this on my own, Chief," Carlton tells her with folded arms and a bit of a contemptuous glance in Spencer's direction.

"And if it weren't for the prospect of getting paid, I'd agree with you, Lassie," Shawn shoots back. Then turns to the Chief. "But you need my... psychic GPS, right? To help track this guy down?"

Vick nods sharply at both of them. But mostly at the former. "Better safe than sorry, Lassiter. You and I both know Morris is smart, and he's done a good job of evading the law in the past—"

"You're asking me to go on an eight-hour car ride with _Spencer_ _—_ "

"No, I'm _telling_ you to." That shuts him up, albeit reluctantly. "And I'd like you to find him as soon as possible, so I'm also telling you to hurry up and head out."

As she dismisses them, Shawn jumps in excitement with each step and keeps his hand on Lassiter's shoulder.

"Christmas roadtrip, Lassie! It's been forever since I was out on the road without a motorcycle, and you know what, I really think it's about time we have some quality time together—"

"It'll only be quality if you keep your mouth shut for ninety-percent of it," Carlton grumbles, shrugging his hand off.

"Not possible. How 'bout sixty-percent?"

"Eighty."

"Thirty."

"That's—just... Shut up and get in the car, Spencer."

He does as he's told with a grin, unable as always to take Lassiter's quips to heart. Even with so many hours stuck in the same car ahead of them, and on Christmas to boot.

 

**9:10 AM**

The murder victim, a Kristoff Hansen, was an employee of their current suspect and thought also to do illegal, often drug-related work for him. Morris has been a major suspect in past murder cases of other "employees" as well, but hasn't been able to be convicted.

That's really all Shawn needs to know, but he does as Lassiter orders him to and reads through the entire file before asking any questions.

"Alright, I'm done. And my eyeballs are burning, so thanks for that. Frankly I think subjecting any individual human being to reading for that long is cruel and unusual punishment, and I'd like to plead the fourth—"

"That's the eighth amendment, and you don't plead _either_ of them—and no, you have not 'heard it both ways.' I expressly forbid you to use that phrase at all on this ride, by the way."

"Or what, you'll punish me with more reading?"

Carlton rolls his eyes in both annoyance and slight amusement.

"It wasn't a punishment to begin with, Spencer, and come on, it wasn't _that_ much to read. You took forty minutes to read ten pages and you're acting like a brat."

"What are you talking about?" Shawn snaps, genuinely confused. "Not enough of the super important information was separate from the rest so it pretty much ran together, and after the first couple pages the letters start to move around."

And then his eyes sting badly enough that he needs to rub them, at which he wonders why he didn't just refuse to read it all.

Meanwhile Carlton frowns for a moment, wondering what the fuck _he's_ talking about—

"Hold on. Are you... dyslexic, Spencer?"

"Uh, yeah?"

Shit, now he feels bad. But moreso, confused and vaguely impressed.

"How the hell did you get this far without anyone noticing?"

Shawn just shrugs. He usually plays it off like he's just too cool to read so no one suspects, and after years of having his observation skills trained he can often pick out the few words off a document that he needs to know, even from far away.

Meanwhile Lassiter is the last person he ever planned to confess that to (only Gus and his parents know, really), so he has no intention to continue talking about it.

"So anyway, the Morris case," he coughs, and Carlton gets it. He still feels a resounding internal _yikes_ , but he decides not to bring it up again. "I feel like if you'd hired me on the case from the start, this wouldn't have happened."

"What, you'd have kept him from fleeing?"

"Uh, I might have been able to find proof and had him arrested already!"

As much as the notion pisses him off, Carlton can't outright deny it. Spencer alone has done plenty that the SBPD couldn't together, so yeah, _maybe_ this wouldn't be a problem if they'd hired him.

"Well, there's no changing that now," he practically growls. "Any actual _questions_?"

"Yeah—how do we know he's actually attempting to flee the law and not just visiting relatives for Christmas? The file says he has family in Fresno."

"That's probably the excuse he plans to give us when we find him. Doesn't make leaving the city while knowingly a murder suspect any less suspicious or illegal."

Hm. Fair enough.

"One more thing..."

"Yeah?"

"What kind of name is _Paul Morris_ for a crime boss?"

 

**9:23 AM**

As Shawn finishes off the last shard of candy cane from his jacket pocket, he feels his stomach rumble almost painfully.

"Is that you, or an animal?" Carlton mutters without taking his eyes off the road.

"You heard that? Shit—can we find a drive-thru or something? Preferably a Wendy's. I'm inexplicably in the mood for one of those chicken wraps."

"...Yeah, fine, I'm hungry too." They'd have had to get food at some point anyway.

 

**9:30 AM**

Carlton holds the wheel with one hand and a burger in the other, trying to eat it all as quickly as possible without making himself sick. In the passenger's seat, Shawn's already succeeded with his wrap and is now opening the lid on his chocolate shake.

"Spencer, if you spill that shake on my seats I _will_ shoot you."

"First of all, Lass, it's not a shake, it's a _Frosty_. Secondly I need to take the lid off in order to eat it—with a spoon, the way god intended. Straws are for soda and smoothies _only_ and I'm not willing to give myself brainfreeze."

"I didn't need a speech," he sighs. If he had a free hand he'd pinch the bridge of his nose. "Just. Don't spill it."

Shawn wonders just how much it would piss him off if he spilled some in that moment, and smirks to himself, but decides not to risk it. It would be one thing if they weren't stuck in this car for several more hours...

 _It's not worth it,_ he reminds himself, being uncharacteristically careful not to let the Frosty leave the cup. _I'm not all that in the mood to die._

 

**10:09 AM**

There's only so much desert-slash-mountains-in-the-distance scenery to watch out the window before the forced silence becomes unbearably boring, and Shawn can't help but let out a long whine.

Carlton chooses not to dignify the noise with any kind of acknowledgement. So Shawn actually makes the effort to sit up.

And then he turns on the radio.

Carlton doesn't mind the idea of putting music on, so he still barely acknowledges it.

Most stations are playing Christmas music or commercials or otherwise shit that frankly, neither of them care for, so finally Shawn turns it off again and opens the glove compartment. _That_ gets Carlton's attention:

"Hey, what are you—"

"What kind of CDs you got, Lassie? I don't think I've ever really thought about your music taste, I guess I just figured you were too _anti-fun_ to be into any kind of music except maybe old classical shit, like the townies in Footloose but worse—oh... my _god_."

That's never good.

The soft sound of a zipper tells him that Spencer found his CD case, and a glance in the rear-view mirror tells him that Spencer is giving him a shit-eating grin and holding the case wide open.

"I can't believe you have the _Grease_ soundtrack and you never _told_ me, Lassie."

He frowns deeply and refuses to meet him in the eye. "And why would I have told you, of all people?"

"Because all this time I never pegged you for a musical fan and now I gotta say I like you twice as much as I did before—here's the deal-breaker question, though: Favorite track?"

Unsure as ever how to feel after Spencer's back-to-back insults and praise, Carlton hesitates to answer. But after several seconds he can only assume it is indeed a real question, so he sighs.

"... _You're The One That I Want_ ," he tells him, still frowning. "Obviously."

Shawn immediately grins and opens the CD player on his radio, which is a relief as much as Carlton wishes it wasn't.

One thing he absolutely refuses to do, at least, is sing along. Even if Shawn is— _especially_ _because_ Shawn is, and because he's acting like he expects Carlton to take Sandy's parts, and all-around making him uncomfortable in ways he doesn't even want to admit to—

Before the last track is even officially over, he ejects the CD and hands it back to Spencer.

"Put in the Les Mis soundtrack."

"Um... are you talking about _Less Miserables_ or...?"

His first thought is that he should have remembered that Spencer is dyslexic, but it occurs to him in the next second—

"Don't tell me you don't know what Les Mis is, Spencer."

"I don't know what Less Miserables is, either."

" _You_ _—_ okay, you called me a musical fan, which gave me the impression that you were _also_ a musical fan. So how do you not know about possibly one of the most iconic musicals of all time?"

"I mean, I don't go to _theatres_ or anything, Lassie, I kinda like to defy stereotypes so it's more Gus's thing—I only see musicals once they get turned into movies."

Incredibly frustrated and baffled, Carlton stammers for a moment before simply deciding to take this as a good thing. At least he gets to introduce him to the soundtrack.

Only after he finally gets him to put it in, though, does he catch the comment about defying stereotypes.

 

**11:44 AM**

Around the time that _Castle on a Cloud_ starts, Carlton notices that Spencer has fallen asleep.

Part of him feels deeply offended for the sake of his favorite musical that any person would find it too boring to stay awake, but he doesn't quite have the energy to be terribly angry. Moreso just... annoyed. And vaguely frustrated, and also slightly willing to give him the benefit of the doubt that maybe he just didn't sleep enough last night.

Or maybe he's just _trying_ to be a jerk.

Or maybe the songs aren't exciting or happy enough, which they obviously aren't supposed to be, but it would make sense if that's just not Spencer's taste.

While at a stoplight, Carlton looks over all the way and frowns at him, more curiously than anything. The last and possibly only other time he's ever seen him asleep was in a hospital bed, recovering from that gunshot wound only a few months ago—back then he looked so vulnerable it made him uncomfortable to see. Now he's just... quiet, and oddly domestic-looking with his arms folded and his head leaning awkwardly against the passenger's window in his car.

He has the strangest urge to fix him so that he's in a more comfortable-looking position. But then the light turns green.

 _At least now that Spencer's asleep,_ he thinks, _I can sing along._

 

**12:49 PM**

The car stops, and Shawn jerks awake. Or half-awake.

"Lass—what—d'you need me to drive—?"

"No, we're here. In Fresno. I'm stopping for gas before we try Morris's cousins' place—try to wake yourself up in the next few minutes, alright?"

That he does, and at some point while Lassiter's inside the gas station paying, it occurs to Shawn that the Les Mis soundtrack is paused. Out of curiosity, he presses play, and the song it's on... is _ridiculously_ slow and sad. He supposes it makes sense that Lassie would like this stuff.

After about five seconds he pauses it again, hoping he won't be forced to listen to much more of it before they find Morris.

 

**1:05 PM**

While Carlton goes inside to question the family, he has Spencer check around back and see if anyone (namely, Morris) is trying to sneak out a window. But none of them will even admit to knowing Paul was in the area, let alone at their house. Even a brief search of the inside gives him nothing.

He's sure that they're lying, but without Spencer calling out to announce that he's spotted their fugitive within five minutes, there's nothing he can do but leave.

Meanwhile as they meet back at the car, Shawn actually does have some news of his own:

"They're telling the truth about him not being at the house—he's at a nearby motel, most likely. Or, he _was_ _—_ I'm have a very strong psychic feeling that he's already back on the road, and headed in the direction of Lake Tahoe."

'Psychic feeling' his _ass_ , but whatever it is, it clearly doesn't come from nowhere. And in the past few years the most specific "visions" have generally proved to be the most accurate, so he keeps his brow set and looks Shawn straight in the eye.

"Are you _positive_?"

"As a clam."

Resisting the urge to explain all the reasons why that's wrong, Carlton takes it as a yes and practically slams his foot on the gas.

 

**1:21 PM**

"So—we're gonna be taking an unexpected... up to three or four hours, not including the time it takes to drive back."

"Jesus, how far up north are you two headed?"

"Tahoe. Unless the spirit realm becomes a little more convenient as a Christmas treat and leads us to Morris before he gets there."

Carlton rolls his eyes in the driver's seat, and Shawn sticks his tongue out while Chief Vick responds:

"I have a feeling he may just end up leading you two on a wild goose chase if he already knows you're following him. Have you actually caught sight of his car at all?"

"Nah, he's probably miles ahead of us."

"Well. Once again, I'll alert the police in the area."

With one last sigh, she hangs up, and Shawn shoves his phone back into his pocket.

"How long before this becomes a federal news-ish thing and I no longer have a chance of getting paid?" he groans, sinking into the seat.

"Tomorrow," Carlton snaps. "And if we don't find him by then, I'm blaming you for having wasted the entirety of my Christmas."

"Yeah, like you had anything better to do."

 

**3:00 PM**

Shawn notices the turn of the hour and immediately looks over.

"You think we can spare time for another drive-thru?"

 

**3:50 PM**

They've barely passed Modesto since getting lunch, and it doesn't look like they'll move much more anytime soon. At least fifty cars are piled ahead and even a police siren or badge couldn't get him through a jam like this—not unless he tried to piledrive everyone else, or drive right off the edge of a fucking mountain.

"We might not have ended up here if you didn't need to stop for lunch," he grumbles eventually.

Shawn gives him an affronted look. "Uh, I _asked_ to stop for lunch. And you agreed. So if you're gonna point fingers, point 'em at whoever got in an accident ahead of us, or the guy who built this road, or Santa Claus for inventing Christmas, or... Ben Affleck, or something."

He hates that he wants to laugh—that he finds himself amused at all, really. And he also kinda hates that he doesn't even have to ask what Spencer means by Ben Affleck.

"Morris is probably stuck in this mess too, anyway," Shawn adds. "Ooh—point the finger at _him_ , Lassie, point it at the guy who we're actually chasing, who actually committed murder, huh? Eh, that was probably too late, that was... bad. Nevermind. My witty retorts are becoming stale in the heat of this car, Lassie."

Finally, Carlton allows himself a half-smirk (on the side that Spencer can't see), and tells him to just roll down the window.

 

**5:11 PM**

Soon after rolling the window back up, they're turning the heater as high as it can go. And the windshield wipers are on for the first time in nearly a year.

 _"We're getting a White Christmas late in the day here in Sacramento. Pretty lucky I say, already more than our usual couple inches is powdering the ground_ _—_ _not so lucky if you're out on the road, though, it's getting pretty icy! Sorry to all those folks who aren't warm inside with their families, we_ _—_ _"_

Carlton turns the radio off abruptly with a sort of scoff—mainly to hide the fact that he's shivering, and made vaguely nervous by the weather.

"This is ridiculous," he bites out before Spencer can say anything. "I didn't sign up for going this far—Vick was probably right about this being a wild goose chase, and we should leave this to the local authorities."

"You wanna turn back already?" Shawn asks, genuinely disappointed. "We've already been driving for so long we might as well go the distance, Lassie."

"You mean _I've_ been driving for so long." His scowl deepens.

"Well, how about we keep going until we find the next rest stop, we get you some coffee to warm up your ice-cold heart and... everything else, and then I'll drive the rest of the way."

After several moments of deliberation, it occurs to him that they would need to keep driving for a while before being able to turn back anyway. So—

"Fine. But for the record, I can't believe the lengths you're willing to go just for a couple thousand dollars, at the most."

Shawn laughs and folds his arms behind his head. "Clearly you don't know me at all, Lass—at this point this is the kind of adventure I'd go on for free."

What he really meant was that Spencer is actually willing to spend so much time with _him_ , but now he figures he shouldn't mention it.

 

**5:59 PM**

It's become much more of a blizzard than a "White Christmas." And even with Spencer now at the wheel, taking all the focus of driving from him... they can't stay at this. It's too cold and he doesn't even have a jacket, and the heater is just barely enough, and it's too... white. Out there.

Hands shaking, he moves to pause probably the eighth cast album that's been in his CD player today. Shawn immediately glances over.

 _We_ need _to turn back, or at least find a motel or something,_ is what he intends to say—but something hits the back of the car and he's cut off by the way the whole thing lurches, and—

Something hits them again in the next moment, and the wheels start sliding until they leave the road.

 

**6:08 PM**

For the third time today, Shawn is woken up. This time it's by gentle slaps on the cheek, and when his eyes open he's met with an intensely worried and icy-blue gaze.

"Spencer? Shawn!"

"Las—Lassie? Did we—?"

"Oh, J-jesus Chris-s-st." If his body wasn't so busy violently shivering, it would relax in relief. "I th-think we fli-ipped. And p-passed out. And it's—"

"Probably Morris who did it to get us off his tail permanently," he finishes, and Carlton nods as erratically as the rest of his body is shaking. His own head throbs a bit. "Uh. Please tell me we're not dangling on the edge of a cliff, moments away from death..."

He lets out a mirthless laugh, but it just sounds like all of his other breaths.

"N-no, we're i-in a ditch, I th-think."

Not only that, but the doors are frozen shut, and breaking the windows would only cause more damage. There's no way they'll get far out in that freak blizzard, especially him—they're safer in here, where the heater is luckily still working.

"And the radio?" Shawn thinks to ask.

"N-not working, b-but I had enough signal on m-my phone to t-t-text the Chief w-what happened, and to b-be p-pretty sure she g-got it. If w-we're lucky th-then local auth— _authorities_ will f-find us in a c-couple hours or so—"

"Okay, you need to take my jacket, because—"

"No-o, I'm fine, I'll j-just. Get in the b-back, where the heaters w-work b-better."

As he crawls back there, Shawn barely hesitates before undoing his own buckle and following. It really doesn't need to be said that they'll be better off huddling for warmth, especially Carlton, who's freezing down to the bone... so they don't. Except for a brief look as Carlton squeezes up against the side heaters and Shawn presses himself right up against him. It's a look of gratefulness more than anything.

Oh, and a very bitter, sarcastically spoken "Merry fucking Christmas."

It comes out of Shawn's mouth, but they were both thinking it.

 

**6:12 PM**

After about a minute of internally processing the situation, it all feels significantly less surreal to Shawn. Really, it almost feels like the _logical_ end to this roadtrip.

But maybe that's just because he hit his head pretty hard in the landing.

"...Exactly how likely is it that we'll be found before we freeze to death?" he asks quietly, breaking the silence.

"You tell me, psychic," Carlton mumbles without looking at him. It does feel like a serious question, though.

Shawn ignores him and squints at the fuel gauge.

"Well, we have about half a tank left, which should keep the heater on for about four more hours. Then again I'm getting that information from an episode of The Nanny, so it might not be accurate."

Carlton does look at him then, with a raised (amused?) eyebrow. "Cars have advanced a lot since the nineties, Spencer—the heater should stay on at least twice as long."

He's much more worried about whether it will be _enough_.

 

**6:20 PM**

Shawn checks both of their phones for a fourth time. If their texts have gotten through, no one has responded.

He stares out the windows and has to wonder if Morris will just get away with this, if the snow could possibly cover up the car so much that no one will find them until it's too late—more than anything, though, he wonders if this was a trap all along and if they were _led_ straight into this snowstorm.

No, no, that's too unlikely—he only knew the guy would be headed to Tahoe because he could see the reflection of a text message sent by Morris's cousin while hiding. Morris would have had to know he was spying.

Or maybe he believed his cousin would end up spilling the secret somehow?

 _No_ , it's stupid. Even for him.

As he averts his gaze from the windows and tries to get it out of his head (he'll only go crazy—he better think of something to lighten the mood soon), it occurs to Shawn that Lassiter's been doing nothing but. The guy's been facing front and keeping his eyes vaguely downward the entire time, or otherwise looking at him.

Hm.

 

**6:36 PM**

"Does this have anything to do with the snowglobe thing?"

Carlton's heart stops, and he very briefly wonders if he's been wrong about Spencer faking his psychic abilities this entire time. He also doesn't know whether he'd prefer silence to _this_ distraction (if it even counts as one), but Shawn's looking at him intently and won't back down.

"What?" His teeth are far less chattery now, but his throat's also gone a bit hoarse.

"You _really_ don't like the snow," Shawn explains, giving him a scrutinizing look. "You're not just... prone to cold, you actually _really_ hate it. Is that why you have that weird fear of snowglobes?"

It would make a lot more sense than just chalking it up to Lassie being crazy (though a lot of other things are still left unexplained by anything else), and Shawn's lips start to stretch into a smug smirk until—

"I was caught in a blizzard when I was a kid, about seven." He's not entirely sure why he admits it—spite, maybe? His therapist would probably tell him he has a ' _desperation to be understood_.' "I was out there alone for long enough that I'm pretty sure I nearly died... And you know, Spencer, when you get cold enough, it starts to burn."

Shawn's pretty sure his soul just briefly left his body, because his heart almost certainly stopped cold with that confession. _Jesus fucking Christ._

Carlton doesn't look at him, not even in any sense of victory or curiosity at how white his face has gone.

"...Now I feel like shit about the snowglobe thing, _fuck_ , Lassie, I—"

"I'm pretty sure _I_ repressed the memory until less than a year ago, anyway, Spencer—don't beat yourself up over it."

Now that _does_ take away a bit of the spite factor... His therapist may be right, then.

 

**6:55 PM**

Nearly an hour is already too long to watch him shiver, stiff (too cold to move?) and unwilling to even mention how utterly chilled to the bone he is.

Finally, during a spot of silence between them, Shawn shifts to take his right arm out of his jacket so he can stretch it over both of them. Which only works if and when he scoots close enough that he's essentially wrapped around him.

Carlton doesn't protest it, _especially_ not Shawn trying to get some friction going to warm him up more—partially because he's at a loss for words.

He does look at him, now, as avoiding it would be awkward with their faces this close. The red tinge to his face is no longer entirely due to the cold.

 

**7:28 PM**

Aside from the closeness, it's probably the vague fear of death that pushes him to say it.

"Hey, I'm sorry."

Carlton frowns. "I already said not to beat yourself up—"

"No, not for that. Well, I _am_ , but—"

"For what, then?"

"...I dunno, I guess a lot of things—for getting us into this mess? For insisting that we keep going when you wanted to turn around, for... I mean. For being a huge _jerk_ all the time. You don't deserve half the shit I pull around you, and even if we don't die I pretty much ruined your Christmas."

After a short pause, Carlton actually lets out a laugh—at which Shawn lifts his head from the other man's shoulder to frown at him. He should probably just take the apology as the Christmas miracle it is without trying to argue, but—

"As you put it earlier, Spencer, I didn't have anything better to do anyway. Meanwhile what the hell is _your_ excuse—you have Guster, and Henry, and... a girlfriend, whom I know you've got a serious thing going with, so why—?"

"Hold on," Shawn cuts him off, "how do you know about that?"

 _Juliet wouldn't shut up about it the few days after you got shot,_ would be the truth, but he doesn't say it. The last thing he wants is to bring Spencer's relationship with _her_ into the conversation.

"Maybe I'm psychic, too," is what he does say, with the beginnings of a wry smirk. If Shawn wasn't already holding him tightly around the back and waist, he'd hit him. "So why aren't you having Christmas with _them_ _—_ as far as I can tell, you actually like the holiday. Are you seriously that desperate for money?"

"Well—" _Partially_ , but even for him that's a bit unbelievable. "Gus and Abigail have families, and my dad's spent plenty o'Christmas without me, he's fine. In fact he'd _prefer_ I'd be on a case than at home bothering him. So instead I'm here bothering you, because... well, aside from the fugitive-chase-gone-wrong, it was an excuse to make sure you weren't lonely."

He considers lying and telling Spencer that he doesn't get lonely, but that would be a stupid lie.

And his pupils have visibly widened to the point that he can feel it.

And their noses are practically touching anyway.

And Shawn hasn't broken eye contact with him in the past minute—and he's so warm, he's the _one_ thing combatting the cold and keeping him from feeling like he may die at any moment, and there's really only one way he could possibly be _warmer_ against him—

Carlton kisses him first, surprisingly enough, disregarding the fact that just a minute ago they were talking about his girlfriend.

Shawn grips the side of his face and kisses him back immediately—not demandingly, like he might in any other scenario (and most of his fantasies), but... slowly. Firmly. Like he's breathing life into him.

Because as strong and capable as he always is, right now Lassie can barely keep his own breath in.

Abigail barely even crosses his mind.

 

**7:43 PM**

Very shortly after they stop kissing (for the moment, not for good), Shawn threads his and Carlton's fingers together. So smoothly that neither of them even notice, at first.

In about the same amount of time, Carlton recovers enough for it to occur to him:

"Isn't there something else you think you should maybe... apologize for?"

He knows exactly what he means, but has absolutely no desire to mention it directly until death is pretty much certain, so instead—

"I think that might just fall under 'being a jerk.'"

 

**8:00 PM**

Still no response to their texts, so they try calling Vick. And then Juliet and Gus when that doesn't work, even though logically it wouldn't make a difference—and of course it doesn't.

And the snow is still falling fast. Ice obscures most of the windows.

"If we freeze to death, they'll find us like this," Shawn muses aloud. And he regrets the way it sounds as soon as it comes out of his mouth—not even that it's too morbid for his general attitude, but that he knows it comes off like a warning. So he tries to fix it: "Or they won't find us at all, and we'll end up in a huge block of ice until we get thawed out a thousand years in the future, which would be sad because Gus and I always talked about doing that, but if Futurama's accurate, then—"

"If we freeze to to death, we'd still be dead when they thawed us out," Carlton points out, slightly amused in spite of the circumstances. "Regardless, whoever found us likely wouldn't assume anything beyond the fact that we're huddling for warmth."

Not _huddling_ so much as cuddling, really.

"Would you rather they not think anything else?" he asks before he can stop himself. (Like he _ever_ stops himself.)

He doesn't know why he cares, it's not like they had anything _solid_ before this—they're not boyfriends, or lovers, and hell, imminent hypothermia was probably the only thing that gave either of them courage to risk this in the first place.

Carlton, especially, hardly ever dared to hope his feelings weren't entirely one-sided until the past hour. But he doesn't hesitate to tell him the truth:

"I couldn't give less of a damn what anyone thinks—definitely not after I'm _dead_ , Shawn."

He then starts gripping him a little tighter.

 

**8:20 PM**

Someone _will_ come for them, surely, but with every moment that passes Shawn becomes slightly _less_ sure.

He doesn't grow panicked (like Lassiter is) so much as he grows more open, less self-preserving. Just a little more ready to _be_ ready to die.

"I have a confession to make, Lassie," Shawn mutters into his shirt, now shivering a bit himself. The heater might be wearing down. "...I've had dreams about us—I mean, really I _have_ them, kinda regularly, and I don't even mean what you're thinking. Well, I have those too, but. It's just... stupid stuff, like dates or cases that don't make sense because they're dreams, and... holding hands. Stuff like _this_ , minus the freezing—you know what I mean. I just. Thought I'd mention."

Saying all that out loud feels much bolder than the kissing, honestly. He might as well have just told him that he's got it _bad_ and that he wants something real and committed—something he'd _never_ tell most people, even while actually dating.

Eidetic memory be damned, Shawn can't think of the last time he sweet-talked Abigail that way. Though he's not exactly trying that hard.

The words sit in Carlton's ears for what feels like a full minute before he fully processes them... and then his heart very nearly picks up back to a healthy speed.

"I have nightmares like that," he finally tells him with a small grimace.

Naturally, Shawn raises his head at that. And his shoulders drop.

"Why are they nightmares?"

Carlton hesitates for half a second. "Because you always leave me in the end. You... show up, and kiss me, and maybe we fuck, and then you're out of Santa Barbara and I never see you again. Half the time you steal all my money on the way out, and... honestly? Waking up is hardly even a relief."

It's dumb, but Shawn can't help but feel deeply guilty for those things—things he'd _never_ do, not to Lassie or anyone else in his life—he feels terrible that Lassiter feels that way, is what it is. Because he _really_ doesn't want to make him feel that way.

As though to tell him just that (or to spill all the apologies he wishes he could give in place of those nightmares), Shawn kisses him again. Extra slow, this time.

It occurs to him afterward, as he's pressing his face into Lassiter's neck, that the fact that he would confess that at all means he believes he'll have no other chance. And if Lassie believes _that_ firmly that they're not making it out of here alive, Shawn might as well accept it.

So other confessions start rolling out.

 

**8:52 PM**

"You have a beautiful voice, by the way."

Carlton... has no idea what to say to that. Except, after a moment's pause,

"What d'you mean?"

"Earlier. " (It's odd that he only now remembers, as his brain is so muddled he could fall asleep.) "When you were singing along to... that soundtrack. _Les Mis_. I fell asleep but I woke up a little and heard you singing, and it was nice... Better than the guys on the CD, really," he adds.

Carlton's entire face soften into a real, genuine smile, and as impossible as it should be with the cold so constricting, his chest flushes warm.

 

**9:29 PM**

There's a sharp knock at the front window, startling them both into full consciousness. Before they can finish reacting to it, there's another knock that breaks it, and a man with a thick beard and a deputy's hat pokes his head as well as a flashlight in.

"Oh—thank _God_ you two are alive in there... Sit tight just another minute or so, okay? I got some guys who're gonna pry the door off."

As the man pulls his head back out, all at once Shawn feels his body flood with utter relief for the sake of his mortality, and—not panic, not even necessarily _regret_ , but just... heavy acceptance. That he's going to have to deal with everything he said.

Carlton, too.

But there's relief more than anything between the both of them, so much that not much more than the phrase "oh my god" with varying inflections can come out of their mouths as they lean on and clutch each other. Even after they finally get out of the car.

That, and semi-hysterical laughing.

 

**11:57 PM**

They're technically released from the hospital (luckily, not even the one of them ridiculously susceptible to the cold managed to get hypothermia), but it'll be another few hours, at least, before Juliet and Gus get here to pick them up. It's extremely comforting to know that their friends so readily hopped in the car together to make this trip—enough that it almost overshadows the fact that Carlton's own car now has a busted engine, a shattered window, and a door broken all the way off.

_Almost._

And the warmth and light of the waiting room is enough that hardly any of the expected discomfort of being so close in public is there at all—they're just... too relieved to be alive.

Relieved, and something else.

"You talked to the local police, right?" is the first thing Shawn says as they sit down. He lets his hand fall halfway on top of Lassiter's for now. "About Morris?"

"Yeah, ah—there's no proof he's the one who hit us, but they did find him, and at this point he definitely won't be getting out of jail time."

The case is practically behind them both, really—Shawn's sure that if he does get paid, it'll only be compensation for the ordeal he went through, which is all going to have to go to his hospital bill anyway.

Not that he can genuinely say he regrets any of it, regardless of the near-death experience. He has no shortage of those to begin with, and honestly? If he could go back to this morning and choose not to get in Lassiter's car, he would still get in.

"...I'm not gonna take back anything I said, if you're expecting me to," he says quickly. Just to get it out of the way.

Carlton immediately sighs in relief-a different kind than before, in fact an arguably _better_ kind. And he shifts to fully cover Shawn's hand with his own in the space between them, as somewhat of a reflex.

"Good, because neither am I—but I _would_ really appreciate it if you don't ever bring up... most of it. At least not in public."

Which he agrees to, of course, but at the moment he's much more focused on the implication that they'll spend time away from the public. Not even necessarily in the way that immediately comes to mind.

But then, "Does that apply to Gus, too? Because he totally deserves to know—an abridged version, obviously. Not even right away because he's very fragile and very _straight_ , but you gotta admit, that _was_ kind of a story worth telling, with all the tropes and everything, _and_ he's my best friend—"

"Do you think we could just... talk about that _later_ , Spencer?" Carlton asks, but he really means to _tell_ him that they _will_ talk about this later. He's just... too tired.

Shawn gets it, and promptly leans against him with a single breath of a laugh.

Then, as he glances to the nearest wall clock to see how much time's left until they leave, he notices the second hand only thirty seconds away from ticking to midnight.

"Hey—Christmas is almost over, Lass, and you haven't wished me a _merry_ one, yet..."

Even now, Carlton can hardly tell if he's serious. But he doesn't have the energy to refuse to play along.

"...Merry fucking Christmas, Shawn. Let's do something else next year, though."

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: When Gus and Juliet come to pick them up, Shawn and Lassiter fall asleep on eachother in the backseat under a blanket, and 2 years after writing this fic I finally [drew it AND, naturally, put it to the song I'll Be Home For Christmas.](http://bassdraws.tumblr.com/post/168654778441/shawn-and-lassiter-exhausted-and-snuggled-in-the)
> 
> -
> 
> I'd just like to put in a note that the whole "Lassie getting stuck in a blizzard at age 7" thing is a headcanon that I wholeheartedly believe in (it's also mentioned in [An American Werewolf in Santa Barbara](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5018485)), and I very HIGHLY doubt that he would have such a serious fear of snowglobes without some kind of trauma being behind it.
> 
> Also, the bit about Shawn and Lassie having those dreams about each other was actually inspired by my own dreams. That is, I have a lot of dreams from Shawn's point of view where Lassie and I just do cute gay stuff???? But whenever I have dreams from Lassie's point of view, bad stuff happens. I actually had one dream as Lassiter where Shawn and I hooked up and then he just. Stole all the money from my bank account and fled to the Bahamas or something. Even my subconscious knows how terrible insecure Lassie is, and how much he fears Shawn taking advantage of him.


End file.
